


Haunted Living in Little Whinging

by braidycat



Category: A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, House Hunters - Fandom
Genre: Gen, crossover of the century
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 03:22:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14463915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braidycat/pseuds/braidycat
Summary: Although the Dursleys learn very suddenly that their favorite television show "House Hunters" is produced by wizards, they decide to swallow their pride and appear on the program anyway.





	Haunted Living in Little Whinging

When the Dursleys received word that they had been accepted to appear on the next episode of “House Hunters,” they were initially quite excited. While number four, Privet Drive had served them well over the years, Vernon especially was glad to know they would no longer be receiving any unsolicited visits from “those ruddy inbreeds” – wizards, of course – and relished the idea of finally having some peace and quiet.

Petunia, on the other hand, had remained cautious upon hearing the news. Having grown up in a home with a budding witch, she knew her sister’s “kind” never quite left one behind. Harry Potter’s unexpected appearance in her life bore testament to this.

So when a tall, thin man wearing thick bright purple robes and a long, pointy hat appeared at number four, Privet Drive one wintry December afternoon, Petunia knew what she was in for, and hoped her husband wouldn’t have one of his famous wizard-related tantrums.

“WHO THE RUDDY FUCK ARE YOU?” Vernon screamed at the man at the door. Petunia sighed as she rose from her seat in the living room and joined her husband in the foyer.

“Well, it’s jolly good to see you, too,” the man replied, removing his hat and holding it with both hands. “Name’s Stan Shunpike. I’m with ‘House Hunters.’”

Vernon was beside himself with anger. Literally – it appeared as if the veins becoming more and more present in his head might pop out at any time.

“ _You…are…not…with…any…show…for…normal…people_ ,” Vernon spat, clearly on the verge of explosion.

“I’m not sure what you mean by ‘normal people,’ sir,” said Stan, not even realizing Vernon objected to his very existence, “but this is the only ‘House Hunters’ there is. Always has been and always will be produced by wizards.”

“DO NOT SAY THAT WORD IN MY HOUSE!” yelled Vernon, whose entire head was so red it looked as if he might burst into flames. “I FORBID IT. DO YOU HEAR ME? I. FORBID. IT.”

Petunia had finally had enough and stepped forward to collect her husband. “I’m sorry, dear,” she mumbled to Stan, not daring to look at him, “but I must speak to my husband for a moment.”

“Take all the time you need,” Stan gargled, or at least that’s what it sounded like when he spoke with his thick accent. “But remember,” he continued, “Father Christmas doesn’t look too kindly upon Muggles with no holiday spirit.”

Before Vernon could pop a blood vessel all over Stan’s greasy face upon hearing the word “Muggle,” Petunia had whisked him away toward the kitchen to calm down.

“Darling, it’s still the same show,” she said once they’d settled into their places. “The boy may use some funny words, but like he said, it’s Christmas, isn’t it?”

Vernon, whose face had faded from cherry red to a sort of light maroon, took a deep breath. “Petunia,” he replied slowly, “It was ‘funny words’ that got us into this mess in the first place.” He walked to the other end of the kitchen and peered out the window above the sink toward Stan, who was still waiting outside. “It was ‘funny words’ – that _school_ – that forced us to have to move all those years ago, because another ‘funny word’ was supposedly after us. It was a miracle that those ‘funny words’ didn’t prevent us from moving back to our beloved home.”

He put his head down sorrowfully. “Those ruddy ‘funny words’ were what got our precious Dudley murdered.”

Petunia gasped. Not since the horrific accident that had taken their only son the year that Harry was off destroying Lord Voldemort’s Horcruxes – oh, she knew, but she would never tell her husband –  had Vernon mentioned the boy, or even hinted at the circumstances that had led to his untimely demise.

But what came out of his mouth next would stun – or _Stupefy_ – Petunia for a long while.

“That _Avada Kedavra_ … he trailed off, whispering for perhaps the first time in his life, but no longer frantically scanning up and down the street to see if anyone could hear him. “If this Stan character says those words…”

Petunia knew better than to correct him. She knew better than to think a plain wizard would ever dare use an Unforgivable Curse, especially since the wizarding world had been free from Voldemort’s terror since her nephew had vanquished him all those years before. And really she just wanted a new house.

“This is the chance of a lifetime for _us_ ,” she explained, holding back a sob as she remembered that night. The giant man who had taken Harry from them all those years before had broken down the door, pointed a pink umbrella Dudley’s way, said those two words, and was gone before Dudley’s body had hit the ground. As Petunia had rushed toward her child, Vernon had angled toward the door, intent on revenge, but a loud _crack_ interrupted his search immediately. As soon as it had happened, the man had vanished.

“For us?” Vernon asked.

Petunia shut her eyes and shook her head, snapping herself out of her momentary lapse. “For us to move on.”

The two made their way back to the door, where Stan was still patiently waiting for them, blissfully unaware of the terrors they had endured, intent only on finding them a new home elsewhere in Surrey, or wherever they wished to go.

“We’ll do it,” muttered Vernon.

“Excellent!” exclaimed Stan. “Well, now that’s settled, might we head on toward House #1?” He pointed out toward a light blue Ford Anglia parked in the Dursleys’ driveway.

Vernon seemed fit to bursting into a fit of relentless anger once more, but having predicted his reaction, Petunia stepped in. “Son, might we just take our car?” she asked Stan, gesturing toward the beige thing her husband had the gall to refer to as an efficient form of transportation despite being built in the ‘90s. “Just…to avoid another…situation?” She nodded toward Vernon.

Still oblivious – not _Obliviated_ – but willing to work with his new clients, Stan agreed and climbed into the back of the “car” as Vernon and Petunia occupied the two front seats.

“So,” Stan began, finding it somewhat difficult to speak over the volume of Vernon’s incessant talk radio. “So,” he said a bit louder, causing both Muggles to flinch. Petunia chanced turning down the volume so she, at least, could hear Stan.

“House #1 is just up the road a bit,” Stan continued. “It’s virtually identical to your current home, except for one thing: it does happen to be haunted.”

Petunia closed her eyes and braced herself for another Vernon-sized outburst, but was shocked when none came. In fact, hearing this bit of information led Vernon to turn off the radio entirely.

“Haunted?” he asked. “By what, pray tell?”

“A single ghost,” Stan replied. “But I suppose he’ll tell you more about himself when we arrive, which should be right…about…now.” The car lurched forward and landed on a similar-looking street to Privet Drive, but unbeknownst to the Muggles, it was several hundred kilometers away from where they had started. Petunia had heard the _crack_ – it was the same that had followed her son’s murder, of course – but only Stan knew they had Apparated to the new street.

Vernon pulled up outside the home as Stan pointed it out to him and the uncanny trio made their way to the front door.

“I say, this one is awfully similar to our home,” Vernon remarked. He turned suddenly and grabbed Stan by the collar of his robes. “ARE YOU SURE THIS ISN’T THE WORK OF SOME – SOME –  _OTHER BEING_?” he screamed into the man’s face.

Stan chuckled. “It sure isn’t, my friend. In fact, we’re farther from your present home than you might think.”

“It really is lovely, Vernon,” cut in Petunia, not wanting to cause a situation where there wasn’t meant to be one. “Their landscaping is certainly better than ours, at any rate.”

As soon as Stan opened the door, the lights began to flicker on and off in an eerily similar way that they had when Harry’s school letters began appearing. Petunia put her hand on Vernon’s arm, bracing yet again for a tirade, but was yet again surprised to see there was none. In fact, Vernon seemed pleasantly amused.

“It’s like that show ‘Ghost Hunters,’” he marveled as a tall figure clad in dark robes appeared right before his eyes. “Are you the Spirit, the Spectre, whose coming was foretold to me?”

The ghost adjusted its half moon glasses and surveyed the three. “I am,” he replied in a loud, thunderous voice that positively delighted Vernon.

“Who, and what are you?” asked Vernon once more.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past,” replied the Ghost of Christmas Past.

“Long past?” giggled Vernon.

“No,” the ghost boomed. “Your past.”

This seemed to bother Vernon a bit more than he had anticipated it might. “I believe I would rather have your countenance extinguished from my presence,” he chanced to reply.

“What!” cried the ghost. “Would you so soon put out the light I give?”

Petunia, having felt a peculiar sense of familiarity since the ghost had introduced himself, asked in turn, “What is your concern then, for my husband?”

The Ghost of Christmas Past, who had not noticed Petunia until that moment, disappeared in his place and at once reappeared in front of the trembling woman, who let out a small shriek. “His welfare,” the ghost said, carefully examining her.

“Well then,” Stan interrupted, “Thank you for that concern, ghost, but I think a night of unbroken rest will be more conductive to that end, dear spirit.”

“Your reclamation, then,” the ghost relented, floating back to his original spot on the floor at the back of the foyer. “Take heed! Rise, walk with me!”

“We’re really okay, Spectre,” Stan said, shuffling some papers that had only just appeared in his hands, an action that seemed to visibly trouble Vernon more than the Ghost of Christmas Past’s presence ever had. “We’ll be off now.”

The trio exited the home and walked back to the car. Vernon seemed perplexed yet excited, while Stan and Petunia were more troubled at the state of affairs that had and would likely soon unfold before them on their house hunting journey.

“Right,” Stan said determinedly, the magical papers from the Ministry having disappeared on the walk back to the car. “House #2 – not that we saw much of House #1 – anyway, House #2 is just up the road further, near the outskirts of Little Whinging.”

He was, of course, lying, as the car once more emitted a loud _crack_ as the three Apparated to another street in another city. Stan would never tell them that their next house was located in the United States – Little Havana in Miami to be exact.

“That’s the one,” he beamed, gesturing toward a building of condominiums near a large river. “Or, rather…” – the papers reappeared in his hands for a brief moment – “number fou – oh, number four! Like your old place! – that’s the one.”

Vernon, who had acclimated rather quickly to the sudden shift in the side of the road upon which he was driving, turned into the car park – er, _parking lot_ in the States, isn’t it? – of the condos, just outside the door that had only a number four on the door.

“Here we are,” Stan nodded, rushing out of the car to open Petunia’s door for her. She felt a bit sick, as if she had just traveled thousands of kilometers in less than a second, but could not identify why that might be. She settled on blaming it on her husband’s often erratic driving.

Just as soon as Stan opened the door to Number Four, Southwest South River Drive, an unnerving cold wind that seemed to have followed them into the condo appeared in front of them once more as yet another man clothed in robes. He was, to Vernon’s absolute enjoyment, transparent and floating above the carpeted floor of the living room.

“Come! Come here and know me better, man!” the ghost exclaimed upon seeing Vernon’s cheerful face. “I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon me! You have never seen the like of me before!”

“I certainly have not!” Vernon cried in delight.

“Have you never walked forth with any of my previous brothers, man?” the Ghost of Christmas Present asked.

Vernon turned to Petunia, mouthing _are you seeing this?_ before turning back to the ghost and replying, “I don't think I have, I am afraid I have not. Have you had many brothers, Spirit?”

“More than eighteen hundred!” the ghost replied.

Petunia, of course, had caught on to the ongoing parody by now, and even Stan seemed more amused by Vernon’s pure childlike enjoyment of their continued run-ins with flamboyant ghosts than by the ghosts themselves.

“A tremendous family to provide for!” Vernon smiled. “Spirit, conduct me where you will.”

Before the Ghost of Christmas Present could float forward and compel Vernon to touch his robe, Stan once again stepped in.

“Nope,” he said sternly, looking up at the ghost as its face went from joyful to solemn. “Nope, not today, sorry ghostie!”

As the trio once again fled their assigned “House Hunters” house, they could hear the Ghost of Christmas Present crying, “Deny it then! Slander those who tell it you! Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse. And abide the end!”

Again Vernon took the wheel of the thing he called Car, and again Stan used some of the most powerful magic in history to Apparate them across country lines, across vast oceans and tall mountain peaks, until the car touched down once more in a village east of Little Whinging. This time, Petunia relished the opportunity to vomit all over herself, the windshield, and Vernon and Stan, which caused her husband to veer off the dirt road upon which they had landed after their swift journey from America and into a ditch.

Stan, who had slowed their descent into the ditch with even more magic, something he had now learned he should never tell Vernon lest he attribute their good luck (and the salvaging of Vernon’s piece of shit car) to ghosts, was the first to ensure everyone else had survived the fall.

Petunia had retrieved a handkerchief from her purse and was trying valiantly to wipe her vomit off the windshield, and Vernon was staring at it with wonder in his eyes.

“Ectoplasm, is it?” he asked no one in particular. Stan would have told him it was, in fact, magical vomit not unlike that emitted from the stomachs of those who consume the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes product Puking Pastilles, but again, he knew better now.

While they had some ways to go before arriving at House #3, Stan could see it in the distance – and something else, too. Unfortunately, Vernon noticed the figure first.

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently, approached. When it came near him, Vernon bent down upon his knee; for in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery.

It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded.

Vernon felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. He knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved.

“Well, this has been fun,” Stan declared. “Come now, Muggles!” Had Vernon been not so transfixed by the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, he might have shanked Stan with whatever he had on his person for using that “funny word” around him, much less to describe him. Instead, the three Apparated once more back to number four, Privet Drive.

The speed of their travel had caused all the vomit to be wiped off their clothing, but the car – Vernon’s pride and joy – was still in the ditch a few kilometers away, and who knew what the spirit that might have been Vernon’s favorite was doing to it now?

Stan dusted his hands off on his robes and caught his breath from the trip before turning toward the couple. “I’m sorry the house hunt was so…unsuccessful,” he murmured, watching the light disappear from Vernon’s eyes. “But I want to offer you a consolation prize.” He walked back toward the light blue Ford Anglia, still parked in the driveway.

“What?” Vernon gasped. “But…my car…”

“ _Obliviate_ – er, I mean, _obviously_ …” Stan waited until he was sure the Memory Charm had worked before continuing. “Obviously, you, the winners of this fantastic new car, are thrilled. Aren’t you?”

“RUDDY MOTHERFUCKING INBREEDS!” roared Vernon as he stormed into the house, but not before grabbing the key to the new car from Stan’s outstretched hand. “I’LL HAVE YOU ARRESTED, I WILL!”

Petunia nodded toward Stan. “Thank you, sir,” she mumbled. “It’s very nice.”

Just then, Vernon’s voice echoed all through the house and down the street. Petunia once more braced for impact, but what she heard was the most curious she had all evening.

“I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!” Vernon cried. “The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me!”

“And that,” Stan proclaimed, “is what true holiday spirit sounds like. Oh, Father Christmas will be so proud!” With one more loud _crack_ , he disappeared into the night.

Petunia walked slowly back into the house, not knowing what to expect from her husband. But as she closed the door behind her, the first person to greet her was not her husband.

“Mummy!” the young man cried as he wrapped his mother into a hug. “I’m back!”

“DIDDYKINS!” Petunia screamed as the ghostly figure that appeared to be her son recoiled in horror. “NO! YOU WERE DEAD!”

“I think we’ve established that ghosts are real, sweetheart,” Vernon said matter-of-factly as he entered the foyer, which put a smile back on Dudley’s face. “Now, who wants some treacle sponge pudding?”

Dudley raised his white, transparent hand at once, and the two scampered into the kitchen to feast.


End file.
